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da-rulah · 10 months ago

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The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x f!Reader [Part 3]

Summary: With the whole town coming out to celebrate the Bicentennial, you're back to playing Daddy's good little girl. Still, the lingering hurt from your last encounter with Mary simmers away inside you. But the festivities carry on, and you have to act the part.

All eyes are on you; including Mary's...

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: Angst, mentions of alcohol and drug usage, unwanted advances, jealousy, semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex (reader is on the pill as mentioned in part 2), quickie

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

A/N: Another big thank you to the wonderful @angellayercake and @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading and workshopping parts of these chapters with me. I adore you endlessly, and cannot thank you enough.

"Mare, c’mon man, that girl is practically undressing you with her eyes!” One of Mary’s friends, Davey – only named as such since his surname was Jones and he did indeed look like a pirate with a kraken for a best friend – slung an arm around Mary’s shoulders where he sat at their usual spot by the bar. Mary almost choked on the sip of beer he was taking, shoving his friend from him with an eye roll and leaning back on the bar.

“Told ya, I’m not into her,” he warned, taking another sip from the bottle neck.

“Why the fuck not? She’s hot as hell...” Davey screwed his nose up in disgust at Mary, shamelessly looking towards the beautiful girl in motorcycle leathers at the end of the bar who only seemed to have eyes for Mary.

“Leave him alone, Davey... You know that ain’t his type!” Forrest – also a nickname, given to him to take the piss out of his talent in track in high school – elbowed Davey in the ribs in jest.

“Nah, Mare only likes that ‘princess pussy’,” laughed Jed – no nickname, that actually was his name.

“Shut the fuck up, Jed,” Mary spat, not bothering to turn his head back to his friends.

To those around him, it was obvious he was sulking. But what wasn’t obvious, was why.

His friends weren’t aware of his second night with you, nor did they know why he had been in such a foul mood the last few days. But Mary’s mind was constantly occupied with re-enactments of the heated exchange on your rooftop.

He flitted between feeling hard done by, like he had done nothing wrong, and digging his heels in, telling himself it was you being the brat and giving him a hard time over nothing. More often than not, he settled on the latter – he was just too damn stubborn to admit any sort of wrongdoing, too quick to be defensive of his actions and opinions as he had to be all of the damn time.

“What, did she ghost you, Mare?” Jed taunted with an exaggerated pout and a puppy dog voice, “the Queen of Shiba didn’t call?”

Mary span on his bar stool, glaring at Jed. “Nah, I told you guys; not interested. Good lay, bit of excitement, but I don’t go back for sloppy seconds.”

And there it was; the male bravado, the toxic masculinity he’d learned as a product of his environment. Frankly, he hated it. He knew what he sounded like to his own ears, and that wasn’t him. But surrounded by the only people in this town to share his interests, he had to fit in. He was so desperate to fit in somewhere.

This Mary wasn’t a reality; this was the stereotype that he was forced to live under to get by. And that was just the problem; Mary, just like you, lived according to how people believed he should live. But even Jed didn’t believe him, his tone monotonous and his face unwavering from the stormy little look that had been perpetually carved into it since that last night with you.

“Listen man, if she stood you up or whatever, she ain’t worth your time anyway. Girls like that are nothin’ but trouble...” Jed leaned against the bar next to Mary, who looked down at him with disgust.

“She didn’t stand me up, you fucking ape. I’m just not a repeat offender,” he shrugged.

“Only ‘cause no girl in their right mind would fuck you twice, Goore,” Forrest teased. He meant nothing true by it, only intending to have a laugh, some banter with his friend over a beer. But it struck a nerve with Mary.

“Fuck you, man,” he growled, slamming his beer on the bar behind him and standing up, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of the bar stool.

“Oh come on, I was joking!” he tried to back-pedal, but Mary had heard enough.

“Whatever, I’m out.” Mary slunk his arms into his jacket as he pushed through his friends crowding around him, past the girl at the end of the bar who, with a sparkle in her eyes, had thought he was finally coming to talk to her – only to be disappointed when he didn’t even look at her – and out into the street where the slight chill of a late-night breeze bit at his skin.

Mary sighed to himself, fishing in his pockets for his pack of smokes and lighter, inhaling a long drag to calm his simmering rage in his chest. As he began to walk, his mind raced ahead, down tangents he hadn’t ventured in quite some time. He’d pushed them down, ignored them and continued the facade for too long, but they were bound to come back eventually – and Forrest may just have triggered that.

Because sure, he hadn’t ever had a long-term relationship of any kind. Flings that lasted a month tops, yes, but nothing substantial, nothing with anything real. Mary was everybody’s dirty little secret, the guy they could never take home to mother and so no one ever did. His reputation preceded him; the angry little metal head punk who got into trouble, started fights, dicked about all the time. Who on earth would want to be with a delinquent?

But that wasn’t him. That was just what people saw when they looked at him.

Perhaps that’s why your dismissal of him cut as deep as it had. When you looked at him, that was all you saw too. He knew he’d never given you any reason to believe he was anything otherwise – he’d screwed you in a bathroom stall and snuck into your bedroom when your parents were downstairs, for fuck’s sake – but part of him always hoped someone might see through that, read between the lines, maybe get to know him a little.

He’d certainly been intrigued by you...

Daddy’s little girl, the apple of his eye, the town sweetheart... How dumb had he been to think a girl like you would ever see him as anything different than the rest of the world. Mary was nothing but a token fuck, a notch on your bedpost. You were experimenting, looking for a thrill in your drab little life; that’s what he told himself. He’d never be more than a dirty little secret to you.

The more he thought about you, the more stupid he felt. It bordered on angry, realising now that while you spewed that bullshit about being put in a box, stereotyped and forced to live what essentially was a lie, you were doing exactly the same thing to him. Oh, you wanted the chance to prove you were more than your reputation?

Well, so did Mary. But you wouldn’t give that to him, so why should he give that to you?

Mary shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked through town, practically deserted at the late hour. He smoked and thought, mind whirring over you. He shouldn’t be stuck on this, but it bothered him. You bothered him.

He thought there was some kind of connection there, if that last encounter was anything to go by. The way you’d held him close to you as he drove his hips into you, the way you gave in to him, trusted him... He thought you might give him a chance to show you there was more to him than just a good lay and a residual bad-boy image from his teenage years. But you gave him no such chance.

Mary scoffed into the night, taking a long drag of his cigarette as he walked himself home. If he was going to wallow in self-pity and loathing, he wanted to do it in the comfort of his tiny little apartment with a cold beer and perhaps a joint.

But most importantly, he wanted to do it alone.

You were dreading tonight, as you dreaded every major event in this town that your perfect little family had to attend or host.

The town’s bicentennial celebrations had been prepared for weeks ahead of today, and now today was the ‘big day’, as your father had been reminding you.

“This town will remember who their mayor was on occasions such as this. It’s important, darling. You must look your best on the ‘big day’!” he had told you. You’d just nodded and smiled along, resorting to default ever since the night Mary had left.

That reputation was so important to him. His political career was his first born, you were simply the second, less significant baby in his life. But, as the good little girl he saw you as, you dressed in the pretty red sundress you’d bought to match the red, white and blue of the occasion, did your simplistic, pretty make up and put on that dazzlingly sweet smile for the biggest event of the celebrations; the Bicentennial Fair.

A couple of the farmers on the outskirts of town had graciously given up some of their land to host the fair, setting up a bandstand stage, fairground rides and games, some food stalls... There was to be a firework display, live music, and of course, a big speech by the reigning Mayor; a speech you would have to be on stage for, paraded as part of Daddy’s little trophy family.

The thought of the town’s eyes on you made you feel sick. You wish no one knew you, that you were invisible. Well, not totally invisible... There was only one set of eyes you wished would see you; truly see you.

“Darling, the car is here. Are you ready?” your father called up the stairs to you, impatience in his tone. You glanced in your mirror, one final fluff of your hair and smack of your glossed lips before you called back.

“Coming, daddy!”

“Ladies and gentlemen! Two centuries ago, a small settlement nestled on this land, and over the years, it has flourished into the vibrant, diverse, and thriving community we proudly call home...”

You had to fight the scoff that threatened to rise in your throat, instead standing beside your mother with your well-practised smile in front of the crowds that flocked to the stage for your father’s opening speech. There was nothing ‘diverse’ about this community that shunned and bullied anything it deemed different.

“As we commemorate this momentous occasion, let us take a moment to acknowledge the resilience and dedication of every individual who has played a role in shaping our town's story. From the pioneers who first set foot on this soil to the generations that have followed, each has left an indelible mark on the tapestry of our shared history!”

While your father droned on about the achievements of the town throughout his lifetime and time in office, your eyes drifted over the crowd gathered at the stage. Near the front, you could see your friends, flirting with some of the college lacrosse boys they’d invited to hang out with you all. If you weren’t here by the demand of your father, you would slither on home the second his speech ended; no part of you wanted to hang out with the fake friends you’d never felt so disconnected from, nor the group of jock boys they were drooling over.

If it were up to you, you’d no longer be friends with these people at all. Throughout school, they had been the ‘right’ people to hang out with, the ones that held up your image and you hung out with based on forced proximity alone, but you’d grown up since high school and college and these people were not your people. They were fickle, shallow and had no depth to them. You wanted interesting people in your life, people with substance, stimulating conversation, even something weird about them.

Like him.

Upon scanning the crowd past your friends, you caught sight of him near the back. He was ignoring the speech, as you’d expect, instead chatting and laughing with his friends, can of beer in hand.

Your practised smile faltered slightly, chest tightening as you replayed how you’d left things with him the last time you’d met.

“Don’t think we’re exactly compatible...” you’d told him. “Now you have no reason to come back.”

You had put a hard stop on whatever was going on that night, and boy, did you regret that. Although only hooking up with him twice, you couldn’t deny the weird feeling of safety he gave you. He didn’t seem as shallow as the abundance of people in your life; he had substance, stories to tell. The first night at the bar, you’d heard a few of them... He had been trying to impress you with stories of band shenanigans or stories of pranks and borderline criminal activity but it was more interesting than hearing your ‘best friend’ Amelie droning on about how she’d let a guy spank her once – the height of excitement in her vanilla little life.

The point was, Mary was interesting. Despite the tales he’d told you and the excitement he brought to your sexual exploits, there was more to him to unpack. You so desperately wanted to know him, even the dark parts of him.

But you'd ruined any chance of that.

You plastered the winning smile back onto your face, squeezing your mother’s hand as you shared a bright smile.

“And so, tonight we celebrate the wonderful town we call our home. Please, enjoy the music, the good food, good company,” you father turned back to you and your mother with a loving smile before turning back, the crowd letting out a resounding ‘awwww’ at the ‘family man’ act, “and the fair! Please join us at 8:00pm for the fireworks!”

The crowd clapped and cheered for him as they were programmed to do; for a moment it reminded you of that stupid movie with the minions screaming for their evil genius who wanted to steal the moon. Their loyalty to him certainly echoed that... But soon they dispersed, taking advantage of the fair, grabbing drinks and food and readying themselves for the fireworks due to start in just 20 minutes.

“Mare, pass your lighter! Mine’s outta juice,” Jed outstretched his hand, and Mary – who had been lighting a cigarette – rolled his eyes, slapping it into his palm.

“You brought sparklers? What are we, fucking 8 years old?” Mary laughed, expelling his first lungful of smoke.

“Since when did we become miserable bastards? Go on...” Jed waved an unlit sparkler in Mary’s face, “you know you wanna...”

Mary snatched it with a smirk, his cigarette flopping between his lips. He held the sparkler up, aligning the end of his cigarette and lighting the sparkler far too close to his face and yet somehow managing to do so smoothly without a burn.

“Pretty...” he said, waving it about.

“En-garde!” Jed shouted, pulling a ridiculous fencing pose and holding his own lit sparkler in Mary’s direction.

“You fuckin’ idiot...” Mary laughed, joining Jed in a battle of sparklers as the first of the fireworks shot into the sky, lighting up the faces of the crowd gathered to watch.

You stood and watched them, loud and beautiful as they coloured the dark sky. Beside you, one of the lacrosse guys was getting a little too close for comfort. He’d slunk an arm around your shoulders, your body language remaining closed off with arms folded over your chest. You think his name was Devon, and he’d been flirting with you since you stepped off the stage.

“Pretty aren’t they, princess? Like you...” he mused, smirking down at you. You just smiled, unwilling to deny him the thought that he stood a chance with you in case it caused a scene. You’d rather all eyes were not on you tonight – at least as much as you could control.

Your gaze wandered though, away from the firework display and over to the other side of the field, where you spotted Mary and his friends, goofing around with sparklers like unsupervised children. The smile on his face infected your own, seeing him enjoying a carefree moment of stupidity. You watched as the group battled each other like kids pretending to be pirates.

“So fucking immature...” Devon scoffed beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders. “Trust that punk and his creepy friends to spoil a classy evening.”

You looked at him with a scowl, already pissed off with his presence but now also by his attitude. “Oh, I don’t know. Looks like they’re having fun, at least,” you defended as you turned back to look at the group of them.

Mary dodged a swipe from Davey, fake-stabbing Jed who stumbled over his feet and dropped to the grass feigning death. He laughed at his friends, taking another drag of his cigarette before he looked up, and his eyes fell on yours...

Time froze. You couldn’t hear the bangs of the fireworks anymore, nor the gasps from the watching crowd. Your stomach dropped along with the smile you’d caught from Mary, your arms tightening to hug yourself and make yourself smaller, cowering from his gaze.

Mary had been worried he’d come across you here tonight... He almost hadn’t come, but he’d been met with resistance when he tried to back out. Now he’d seen you, he couldn’t take his eyes off you... Stood there in a red dress that mocked his memories of that red lingerie you’d worn for him, another guy’s arm around your shoulder. A jock, no less.

It stung him more than he would like to admit. Not just with another guy barely two weeks after he’d last had you, but a guy like that; one clearly better suited to your lifestyle than himself, one you weren’t ashamed to be seen with. The anger he’d been working to diminish stoked into a flame of jealousy, as if you’d committed some kind of betrayal. He wanted so desperately to look away, but while your eyes were on his, he just couldn’t do it...

The fireworks ended, the crowd clapping but the two of you stayed locked onto each other, until Devon squeezed your shoulder, snapping you from your trance.

“We’re gonna go on the waltzers, babe,” he grinned, the premature use of a pet name infuriating you. You’d met the guy a few hours ago, and already he believed he had some moronic claim to call you that? It didn’t feel right, didn’t sound right. You much preferred ‘doll’ anyway...

“O-oh, okay. Yeah, I’ll go...” you stuttered weakly, turning your gaze back to Mary who still stood there, watching as Devon guided you away with a look of disgust on his face, sparkler long since extinguished in his hand.

Mary turned back to his friends, rejoining his group and ignoring you as best he could with so much unsaid between you. Defeated, you allowed yourself to be dragged into an evening you most certainly would not enjoy.

Mary made up every possible excuse in the book to follow you from a distance throughout the evening. At first it had been out of jealousy, yes. He wanted to know what the fuck you saw in a guy like the one constantly finding ways to keep his hands on you. As he watched your interactions from afar, he saw this guy kept inserting himself into your conversations with your friends, finding new ways to come between you and them. His hands had moved from your shoulders, to your upper arm, to your waist and down to your hips, and Mary was practically vibrating with fury.

His friends were none the wiser, still dicking about, going on the rides and playing the fairground games. With every can of beer they consumed, they became less and less aware of Mary’s intentions, to the point where they didn’t notice when he slipped away from the group to follow yours.

The final straw had come when you were playing one of those rigged shooting games. Rows of ducks would pass by with targets on their backs, and you had to shoot them with little pellets in order to win a prize. Your aim wasn’t very good, not that you were really trying. You could give less of a fuck about any of this, only partaking at the miserably whiny complaints from your friends about being ‘no fun’ anymore. Out of five shots, you had missed the first two.

“I got you, babe,” Devon stepped up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and enveloping your hands around the gun, lifting them as he lowered his chin to your shoulder to take aim for you.

“I can do it, thanks,” you tried to tell him, but he just laughed, invading your space as he whispered into your ear.

“C’mon, I’ve never seen a worse shot. Let me help...”

You could feel him pressing against your back, his hips into your ass with the subtlety of a clown with air horns for shoes. Internally, you panicked... Telling him no and being adamant would cause a scene... a scene in a public place around everyone from your town. But you wanted nothing more than you shove him away from you, tell him to go fuck himself with a slap.

Instead, you focussed on the game; the quicker you played, the quicker it was over.

But from Mary’s perspective, his advances looked more than welcome; and it boiled his blood.

Now alone and watching from beside a hot dog cart, Mary’s gaze had followed every tiny little move Devon had made, and seen the smug little smirk on his face when you hadn’t pulled away from him. Oh, how he wanted to smack it from him... But from where he stood, you didn’t exactly look like the ‘damsel in distress’ either. And he was no knight in shining armour...

He felt more like a twat in tin foil, taken in by your wiles and flirtations, hoodwinked into believing for a second a girl like you would be attracted to a guy like him. Maybe that’s why you got so defensive when he asked what you saw in him? Because he’d rumbled your little game. Barbie had just been bored, and he was a new little troll doll to fool around with.

You won, unsurprisingly. You made the last three shots with the unsolicited help of Devon, enough to earn you a small prize of a stuffed plushie resembling a lilac unicorn. You pretended you were excited, jumping about to get Devon off you and squealing with your girlfriends to divert the attention back to the group and not on you anymore. It worked, Devon folding his arms over his abnormally large chest and watching with a smug smile as you celebrated your win.

“Uh, babe, think you forgot to thank the person who helped...” he interrupted, bending at the waist and presenting his cheek, tapping it with a finger. He expected a kiss... Your friends stopped cheering with you, now whispering excitedly at the clear flirtation they saw as a win. You, on the other hand, could barely keep the smile on your face, a sense of dread hanging over you.

Once again, you were forced into a situation that backing out of would have more consequences than not.

And so, hesitantly, you stepped back towards him, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek and mumbling a quick “thank you, Devon...”

Mary’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles turning whiter than his face paints and threatening to crack like old leather from the force.

“C’mon, I’ve got another idea...” Devon smirked, wrapping an arm around your shoulder again. “Let’s see which of you girls is the biggest scaredy-cat...”

He was met with snickers from his friends, and some giggles from yours but ultimately, he got his way, and you were being dragged towards the walk-through House of Horrors to the edge of the fairground, lit up with flashing lights and pumping out organ music and evil laughter sound effects.

Inside was filled with poorly made-up actors, cheap scares, tricks of the eye and dead-ends; exactly what you had expected. Devon let go of you to run ahead, in the hope he might find a hiding spot to jump out and yell ‘boo’ from, as was customary of primates of his low intelligence.

You wandered through the mazes and puzzles slowly, losing the majority of your friends and hearing their screams as animatronics or actors jumped out at them ahead of you. You rolled your eyes, sick to the back teeth of their pathetic overreactions to get the boys to fawn over them.

So, you purposefully headed in a ‘wrong’ direction, through a dizzying array of draped plastic sheets covered in dirt and fake blood, getting lost in them. The strobe lights flickered quickly, making any movement around you appear like stop-motion animation. You struggled to see much of anything at all, brief flashes illuminating the sheets around you. You thought you saw figures passing you, actors trying to scare and disorient you; frankly, it was working. As you pushed sheets out of your face, you span in every direction, losing your way and feeling more and more trapped the deeper into the sheet maze you stumbled.

You were just starting to panic, when a hand wrapped its way around your throat from behind you, long fingers and cold metal circling your neck.

You knew the actors in this place could touch you, but not like this...

The rising panic in you exploded, limbs thrashing against the body behind you and squealing until a second hand slapped itself over your mouth and dragged you back through a flurry of plastic sheets until you were pushed up against a wall, your captor spinning to stand in front of you. You dropped your little unicorn plushie, gripping their wrists tightly like a knee-jerk reaction to being manhandled.

Through the strobing lights, you couldn’t make them out in your panic, but you saw the fake blood first, as the actor leaned into your space and hovered by your ear to whisper into it.

“Enjoying your date, Barbie?”

Your eyes widened, your hands letting go of the wrists the held you and slapping against his arms and chest until he removed the grip on your mouth to allow you to speak. But he still had a hold of you... your neck, just like the last time...

“Mary?!” you whisper shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” The panic that had risen inside you subsided, but only slightly. You were still pinned to a wall in a house of horrors by your neck at the hands of someone you believed to be pretty fucking pissed at you after the last time you spoke. Still, an anger rose in you, triggered by the humiliation of allowing him to overpower and scare you like that.

“Ken seems to be enjoying it,” he smirked, biting his lip, eyes watching you with mischief in his irises.

“Not your fucking business, Goore,” you spat, “Get off me!”

Mary backed off immediately, never one to hold you against your will. If you told him not to touch you, he wouldn’t touch you; a rule he lived by. So, his hands dropped to his pockets, and he took half a step back – still enough to keep you backed against the wall, but enough distance you could leave if you really wanted to. So far, though, he noted you made no such move.

“Just find it funny, is all...” he scoffed, kicking his feet against the floor, lights still flickering around you both. You couldn’t get a clear look at him for longer than a split second under these strobes.

“What?” you were getting more aggravated with every word that left his mouth.

“You...” he looked back up at you, his face contorting into one of indignation, an anger that had been simmering away all evening. “Thought you weren’t ‘that kind of girl’. You look real comfortable in that box they’ve put you in, Barbie.”

You wanted to be angry, but instead, hurt flashed through you like a white-hot branding iron had been shoved down your throat.

“You don’t get to judge me on appearances, Mary...”

“Oh, but you do? That seems fair, doll. Sitting up in your ivory fucking tower, looking down at me...” he hissed, slapping a palm to the wall beside your head and leaning over you. In the flashing lights, he looked more menacing than you’d ever seen him... His body was so close to yours, the heat of his anger emanating from him and working its way across you. You could smell cigarettes, leather and beer as his face hovered above you, that cologne from last time missing from his skin.

“I didn’t ask for this, my frie-” Mary didn’t let you finish.

“You looked pretty cosy to me, Barbie.”

“Fuck you...” you spat, defiant and trying to appear as if his words weren’t affecting you, but how could they not? He was doing exactly what you had accused him of, judging you like everybody else. And with him looming over you, so close, so furious, it was hard to think straight at all... Caught between the instinct to slap him and run, or to pull him closer until you could feel all of him again.

Mary threw his head back in almost maniacal laughter, slapping the wall from the hilarity of a joke you seemed to have missed.

“Yep, fuck me. That’s all I'm good for...” he howled, making your brow furrow. What the hell did he mean by that? “I bet you still think about it, huh?” His eyes fell back onto you, running down your features, your neck, your body and back up again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about...” you denied. And it was denial, because yes, you did. Of course you did... Mary was the first and only guy to pay any attention to the fact you had any needs at all besides his own, the first to make you feel that strange, unwavering safety...

“Sure you do. Those thoughts that linger in that pretty little head of yours... Daddy’s little girl, rebelling against him to fuck the town screw up,” he taunted, leaning down to exaggerate every syllable. “You still think about me, darlin’. I can tell.”

You wanted to protest, to smack him and tell him he was being vile, no better than any other man who laid any kind of claim to you. The only issue was, a part of you had let him claim you. Part of you was his the very first time you let him in. Even now, the blush on your cheeks and the fluttering in your groin were indisputable. You thought of Mary every time you had a moment alone, every time you wanted to talk to someone with a personality, every time you touched yourself since...

You’d driven yourself wild with the desire to have him again, let alone the desire to talk to him, to scream at him or apologise to him or something, anything. But no matter out of hatred, lust, longing or loneliness, he’d been there; a constant figure in your mind.

You squirmed under him, thighs pressing together and body sinking against the wall as you dared to look him in the eye. His gaze felt like that of a predator stalking its prey, made all the more foreboding by the intermittency of light.

“Tell me you don’t want that fucking cocksucker...” he growled. You hesitated, chest rising and falling in anxiety.

“I-I... don’t want... that cocksucker,” you stuttered. You’d forgotten how to breathe, how to blink. Mary. Mary. Mary. That’s all your mind knew.

“Tell me you want me, doll...” Your heart raced in your chest as Mary’s lips hovered above your exposed neck, warm breath fanning over the skin and raising goosebumps that he most certainly noticed.

If you refused to say it, he’d back off. If you truly didn’t want him, he would walk away and never approach you again. And you knew that.

The thought terrified you.

“I... Mary,” you whined, laying your head back against the wall. How badly you wanted to say it, to tell him you wanted him. You did, so much. But that anger lingered in you, that hurt... He only saw you as the Mayor’s Daughter, the princess in her ivory tower – he'd said it himself.

“Say you want me, doll...” His lips had moved to linger above your collarbone. “Please...”

Above the sound effects of the house of horrors – the creaking of doors, the screams and rips of chainsaws, the ghostly cackles and ghoulish taunts – you barely heard him, hardly above a whisper. But the way he begged... If you dared to look down at him, to see the visible pain on his face, it might have broken you. You didn’t know why he sounded so strained, so full of despair, but you were sure you were not meant to have heard that.

“Mary... look at me...” you told him, your hands cupping his cheeks as he took a deep breath in, raising his head. There was a strange vulnerability to him, one that you’d only seen brief flickers of in the past. “I-I want... I want you.”

Mary’s face hardened, a rumble travelling up from his chest, his throat, and ripping from his lips with a snarl; the predator catching its prey.

His body pinned yours to the wall behind you, his lips crushing yours in a frenzied kiss. No longer in the safety of your bedroom, you were forced to resort to desperate measures, unable to take your time with each other tonight. If you wanted each other, here and now, it had to be quick. It had to be quiet.

But neither one of you could deny you needed each other, your bodies both so reactive. Mary’s free hand instinctively found your thigh, lifting it to his hip to press his heavy erection to your core so you could feel how much he needed you. Your muscles tensed at the feeling, your core clenching as if beckoning for him. Your fingernails dug into his hair, pulling him so tightly against your lips that they could bruise.

The hand that kept him balanced against the wall behind your head dropped to push between you both, flattening against your mound beneath the skirt of the sundress you’d chosen tonight. Mary felt the damp stain against his skin and growled into your mouth, his tongue swiping against yours in time with the way his palm ground down into your clit.

With no time to waste, he shoved the fabric to one side, sliding his fingers through your arousal and circling your clit as he bucked his bulge into the back of his hand. He parted his lips from yours, pressing his forehead against your own and groaning quietly as his jaw went slack from the friction in his jeans. You hooked your leg around his hip tighter, pulling him against you to encourage him to push those damn fingers inside you already.

He obliged eagerly, slipping two inside – his rings only adding to the sensation – and curling instantly, meeting minimum resistance. You curled in on yourself, biting your lip to hush the moan that so desperately wanted to slip past. Despite the horror track on repeat around you, you really, really didn’t want to be caught like this... mostly because you didn’t want this to end yet.

Mary worked you open expertly, having learned your body and what made you tick, committing you to memory. With every thrust of his hand and curl of his fingers, your chest barrelled forwards into him, forehead pressing into his as your lips chased his – except neither of you were coherent enough to kiss the other, jaws slack with heavy breaths taking over as your minds clouded with lust.

“M-Mary... oh fuck, please...” you begged, your voice barely above a whisper. Mary just nodded dumbly, retracting his fingers and sucking them into his mouth without hesitation, needing to clean them off quickly. He fumbled with his belt and zipper, pushing them down just barely enough to release his weeping cock, so painfully hard his tip glistened a deep red shade.

“I’ve got you, doll...” he muttered, quickly lining himself up with your core and pushing himself inside until his hips lay flat against yours. So much thicker than two of his fingers, the stretch burned a little, both of you moving too fast to take your time with foreplay but you could care less; you needed him now, and you weren’t willing to compromise.

You gripped the lapels of his leather jacket – the very same you’d stolen and given back to him – and held on tight as his hips began rocking against you. Both of his hands fell to your thighs, gripping you so tight you figured he would leave bruises in the shape of his fingerprints. Fuck, you hoped he would.

With his hips he pinned you to the wall, lifting both thighs to wrap your legs around his waist and drive home over and over again while you held on tight. He buried his head in your neck, kissing, sucking, licking, biting at the skin as he lost himself in you. You felt like you were being mauled by a starving animal, the heat of your bodies and the swell of pleasure in your core only adding to the rabid way in which you let Mary take you. The way you grabbed at each other, held each other as close as possible proved how utterly entranced you were, and it frightened you.

It scared you how much you seemed to need him, like he was the most addictive drug on the face of the earth. It scared you how much you had missed him, like a gaping wound had been left when you’d pushed him away and now that he was here, and he still wanted you, it was finally healing. It scared you to think that it could all disappear again, that if you let your death grip on him go, he would walk away for good.

You couldn’t focus on that right now; you couldn’t focus on much of anything, in fact. All you could do was thread your fingers in Mary’s hair, gritting your teeth to stop the moans and screams that threatened to permeate the sound effects repeating from the speakers around you. Through the flashes of the strobe lights, you could just make out Mary’s expression of pained bliss. His eyes were screwed shut, features etched into a permanent growling expression. He pounded into you mercilessly, finding an angle that had the both of you losing your minds.

“Fucking hell, I can’t... I won’t last, doll...” he warned, out of breath but unwilling to slow his hips. He was too far gone, needing release just as badly as you.

“Don’t care, just... don’t stop!” you whined, pulling him by his hair to kiss him violently again. You just needed him.

Mary wasn’t having it though; he would not be responsible for just his own orgasm tonight. He didn’t follow you in here to take what he wanted from you. Truthfully, he had no idea what had fuelled him to follow you in here except a burning desire to confront you, a force propelling him to get some sort of answers out of you. But the only question he needed answering was ‘do you want me?’ And now he certainly knew that you did.

Securing your legs around his waist, his snuck one of his hands between you and pressed his fingertips to your clit as he fucked into you. In the position you both were, it was awkward and difficult, his fingers pressing to your sensitive clit hard enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain, but it was what you needed, and soon enough, you felt yourself hurtling towards a powerful and uncontrollable orgasm...

“M-Mary!” you cried, trying so damn hard to keep your voice down, “d-don’t go...”

“No, no no no I’m right here. Goin’ nowhere, doll. I’m here,” he assured you. “Come on, finish for me. I got you.”

You let go, crashing your lips back to his if only to muffle your cries, too much pressure to allow your lips to move together at all. Your orgasm hit you violently, limbs spasming and muscles contracting as your mind sparked and short circuited. If Mary hadn’t been holding you up, you’d have slid down the wall to the hardwood floor beneath you, gasping for air.

But Mary wouldn’t let you go, especially not when he was seconds away from climax himself. Your body contracting around him and the clenching of your walls on his cock had him losing any composure he’d mustered. Before he knew what he was doing, he was cumming inside you, filling you so full of his essence.

He pushed his body to lean against yours, propping you both up on the wall as you came down together from the powerful high. The speakers muffled your heavy breaths as you both learned to control them, the flashing lights offering some kind of privacy amongst the plastic sheets that concealed you against the dead end to the maze.

When the fog began to clear, you allowed yourself to look at Mary in front of you, dripping sweat from that spike of hair he called a fringe, his make-up patchy and shining with each flash of light. Unsure of what to do or say now, you opted for awkwardly tracing your fingers over his make-up, avoiding his eyes that watched you intently.

“Are you, um... You okay?” he asked, gently setting your feet on the floor and moving his hands to your waist as he pulled his hips away from yours, leaving you feeling empty. He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear that had stuck to your forehead from the humidity of the both of you, before adjusting your panties back to where they should sit, and tucking his softening length back into his jeans.

“Yeah... I’m okay,” you half smiled, awkwardly readjusting your dress and feeling the uncomfortable feeling of Mary leaking from you... “You?”

“Y-yeah, I mean...” He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking down at the floor. “Guess I got carried away.” You reached up to take his wrist from behind his head, entwining your fingers with his instead. He watched you closely, unsure what to say.

“I don't mind,” you smirked, “I’m glad, even. I think... maybe we both needed that.” Mary smiled, avoiding your gaze again and nodding while he fiddled with your fingers between his.

“We should, um... probably get out of here. Before your friends come looking for you, I mean.” He was right, eventually they’d come back for you, thinking you’d got lost in one of the mazes in the house of horrors. You’d rather they didn’t catch you holding hands with Mary Goore; you weren’t willing to try and explain that to them. “You hungry? There’s like, a hot dog cart out there and some taco trucks, maybe if you-”

“I can’t...” you interrupted him, your smile faltering. You couldn’t walk out of here with him. You couldn’t be spotted at the damn bicentennial fair with Mary. Your father was here somewhere, his goons, people from the town... If they saw, it would be bad. It would be so bad. “We can’t, Mary.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over you, Mary’s expression turning to one of hurt, his face paling. He chuckled darkly, letting go of your hand only to run it over his face as he shook his head.

“Wow. Yeah, okay.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“No, no, I get it,” he held his hands up, taking a step back from you. “I wouldn’t wanna be seen with me either.”

“Mary, please-” you stepped towards him, but he took another step back.

“No, y’know what? You’re... you’re unbelievable,” he sneered. “You wanna claim you’re stereotyped, you’re so fuckin’ hard done by? Maybe if you don’t wanna be judged on appearances, you should learn not to do it to other people.”

His face was one of thunder, quickly defensive again. But you saw why now... It took Mary spelling it out for you to see; you were doing to him the very thing you’d accused him of. Your own medicine certainly tasted bitter...

“Mary, I’m sorry, but my father is here!” you tried to protest, only managing to rub salt into the wound. Tears stung at your eyes, the panic that Mary was slipping away again setting in. You didn’t feel lonely with Mary. You could be in a crowd of people who all knew your name, and still feel alone. But not with Mary. Yet he was slipping away again.

“This ain’t fair. You can’t just... pick and choose when it’s acceptable to be around me!” he raised his voice, and you stepped toward him again to shush him, worried someone might hear and find you... Mary saw this as further confirmation you were ashamed to be seen with him, lifting his arms out of your grasp and stepping back another step. “No! I’m tired of being everyone’s dirty little secret.”

Before you could make another move or think of anything to say in your defence, Mary turned and walked through the plastic sheets, swatting them harshly out of the way until he disappeared from your view, leaving you stood alone in the flashing lights and special effects, tears staining your cheeks and a sob caught in your throat.

You were alone again.

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sarahjacobs · 2 months ago

Text

happy late labor day let's talk about how unionism in the newsies film and broadway production are represented differently.

broadly speaking, there are two different ways to organize labor. there are business unions, also referred to as trade unions, the more conservative mode of labor organizing that has been recuperated into capitalism. why it's deemed as a lesser threat is obvious once we consider its historical exclusion of women, people of color, and so-called "unskilled" workers, as well as its long collaboration with government and businesses at the expense of workers, especially the more radical ones. its ultimate prize is short term gains, such as higher pay, typically via the contract; long term transformative/revolutionary political projects are absent in its aims.

revolutionary unions, on the other hand, are explicitly hostile towards capitalism, with the end goal of instituting socialism always in mind. as one of their newspapers reminds us, "momentary phenomena must not blind us to our ultimate aim."

hard promises has some pretty clear cut references to the latter kind of unionism — mayer quotes and names eugene debs, who in 1905 established the industrial workers of the world (iww), a well known revolutionary union.

its hostility to all proponents of capitalism can be seen by its assessment that —

MAYER: The problem is, Jack, that the working class and the hiring class got nothing in common.

this sentiment comes from the iww's preamble to its constitution:

The working class and the employing class have nothing in common. There can be no peace so long as hunger and want are found among millions of the working people and the few, who make up the employing class, have all the good things of life.

Between these two classes a struggle must go on until the workers of the world organize as a class, take possession of the means of production, abolish the wage system, and live in harmony with the Earth.

in the iww's eyes, the world can be divided in two, the capitalists and the workers, between which "there can be no peace."

as for the business unionist's point of view —

When rightly considered, the interests of employer and employed are identical. In the first place both make their living out of the same business or undertaking. . . . [A]ny business is a partnership to a certain extent.

[This union wishes to] prevent unnecessary clashes between employer and employed.

— which states that workers and capitalists have common interests and should work together.

ironically enough, these excerpts were drawn from eugene debs himself, the essay "employer and employed." it was penned in 1884, before his involvement in the pullman strike and his subsequent prison sentence later that year, which reformed him into a socialist.

from debs's 1902 essay, "how i became a socialist," on the topic of his time as a business unionist:

. . . [N]o shadow of a "system" fell athwart my pathway; no thought of ending wage-misery marred my plans. I was too deeply absorbed in perfecting wage-servitude and making it a "thing of beauty and a joy forever."

the key issue of business unions is that they don't know their enemy. what's desired is a more "[perfect] wage-servitude," a more prolonged and humanitarian and fair suffering.

newsies live, too, doesn't know its enemy — i've already talked at length about how fierstein mistakenly places the heart of the struggle in a generational divide rather than the structure of capitalism itself. and because the "shadow of a 'system'" is absent, what we end up with, in both business unionism and broadway's take on newsies, is a labor struggle rife with conciliation and contradiction.

DAVEY: We're done being treated like kids. From now on they will treat us as equals.

KATHERINE: "For the sake of all the kids in every sweatshop, factory, and slaughter house in New York, I beg you… join us." With those words, the strike stopped being just about the newsies. You challenged our whole generation to stand up and demand a place at the table.

throughout newsies live, we see time and time again that there's a disconnect at hand, between the material reality of the conditions that caused the strike and what the writers have them say they're striking against. the oppressive work conditions and horrifically low pay are attributed to them "being treated like kids," and this fight is purported to belong to "our whole generation" — when there's a very real difference between katherine and someone like sarah, why they're working, and the kind of work they can access.

ultimately, the issue fierstein presents is not just a generational divide but one of power not being shared. the rhetoric of wanting to be treated "like equals" and demanding "a place at the table" seem to a) posit that there's such a thing as workers being equal with their employer, and b) voice a desire to share power (the table) with the employer. but an even split of power is impossible when the employer/pulitzer has state power (police, armed strikebreakers, the court) and funds at his disposal in such a way that the workers/newsies are systematically cut off from. the democratization of the workplace is worthless so long as the structures which privilege certain classes are intact.

the proposed solution is that the "[older] generation step aside and invite the young to share the day," as roosevelt puts it. this looks an awful lot like the partnership that debs so exalted in "employer and employed," and i think this connection becomes especially apparent in how negotiations play out.

on broadway, roosevelt has an almost overwhelming presence in the negotiating room. this is a bizarre choice because not only is it a missed opportunity to showcase the strengths of the characters we actually care about, it's also a noticeable departure from 92, which brings roosevelt in primarily to handle the refuge.

SEITZ: And the [trolley] strike's about to be settled. Governor Roosevelt just put his support behind the workers.

it's this line, also a new addition, that indicates the increased role of roosevelt is due to a lack of trust in worker power. or, put more simply, the writer's belief that the government needs to — and should — step in, in order for workers to get any wins; otherwise, labor and capital would be at a standstill. but we should always be skeptical of the government because the employer’s monopoly on state power/violence shows that government is in and of itself a kind of class relation. even when the government places restrictions on employers, it often restricts workers as well (ie taft-hartley act).

the increased emphasis on government intervention undermines revolutionary unionism's argument for and commitment to direct action, or action undertaken to address a problem, without the help of authority figures like union bureaucrats, government officials, and so on… direct action is everywhere in newsies — the newsies tearing up papers and overturning wagons, their various methods of dealing with scabs, and the decision to make their own newspaper in light of the total press blackout.

what drives direct action is an understanding of where the power is located — in the people. the film's negotiation scene understood this well —

true power doesn't lie in pulitzer, or even strike leaders. it's in the rank and file, in solidarity and withholding your labor, in direct action.

the broadway scene lacks this kind of analysis, which is why its take on negotiation falls flat for me. another difference is that jack says they win when in fact, they only win concessions, while in 92, they win all of their demands. this raises a lot of questions for me. was there any discussion beforehand in which the newsies collectively agreed what they were willing to give up — if they were willing to concede anything at all? or did jack make a unilateral decision on behalf of the newsies? on a doylist level, why was this change made in the first place? it can't be for realism. jack getting offered what essentially amounts to a promotion at the end is incredibly unrealistic when we consider how common it is for companies to retaliate against workers after a strike ends, ie the workers who were charged with felony vandalism and conspiracy to commit a crime, all for chalk on a sidewalk while picketing.

concessions are part and parcel of business unionism. using "employer and employed" again to draw comparisons —

[The boss should listen] with respect to the demand and affords relief if he can or a reason why if he cannot.

Both sides ought to give and take. . . . [B]oth sides ought to be willing to compromise.

Capital should extend its hand to labor and labor should grasp it in a friendly manner.

this last tidbit mirrors an earlier negotiation, where jack and les argue over how they should split earnings between them. they go back and forth (70-30, 50-50, 60-40 and that's final) until they agree and spit shake; someone comments "that's disgusting," and jack replies that it's "just business."

this mirroring implies a sense of partnership — after all, the spit shake is what marks the beginning of jack, les, and david being business partners — therefore implying equality. but david and les are more equal to jack than jack and pulitzer could ever be.

additionally, jack's final offer to les is 60-40, a split which favors him. similarly, the offer to the newsies favors pulitzer. what business unions and newsies live fail to understand is that labor and capital are enemies on uneven ground. labor has more to lose, so concessions will always disproportionately hurt the workers. they're the ones who truly have to count pennies, not pulitzer. and, well, maybe the speech the historical kid blink gave at a rally puts it best —

I’m trying to figure out how 10 cents on a hundred papers can mean more to a millionaire than it does to a newsboy, and I can’t see it. We can do more with 10 cents than he can with twenty-five.

#newsies #92sies #this is. an incredibly cursory overview. i had more but i had to cut it down to try and keep this at a reasonable length #also obligatory mention that the true labor day is may day :-)#txt

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